Push into Indus, into Ganges’ flood,
While all Calcutta sings the praise of Budd,[34]
will no more ‘push leg balls among the slips.’
No longer make a wild and wondrous score,
And poke where never mortal poked before.
This is the melancholy of mortal things.
As Mr. Prowse sang
The game we have not strength to play
Seems somehow better than before.